Leap
by Lost in Ashes
Summary: John Watson was born on the 29th of February. Harry won't let him forget it.


Leap

**A/N** This was written for a prompt which required you to go to TV Tropes and click the random button, writing something about the trope you landed on. I landed on the trope 'Leap Day'.

"It isn't your birthday." Harry says, her long legs swinging above his head as she settles herself in the mulberry tree.

"It is." John says.

He looks up at his sister enviously. He still can't reach the lower branches of the tree to pull himself up, and Harry refuses to lift him. Soon she will have picked all the nice fruit from the top branches and he will be left with only the rotten squashed berries that have fallen into the grass.

"You were born on the twenty ninth of February." Harry points out. "That isn't even a proper day. You don't get a birthday, only once every four years." She squishes a berry between her lips and juice runs down her chin. John finds himself licking his own lips reflexively.

"Mum said I could have a party." John says, a sudden doubt crossing his mind. He'd been looking forward to today for such a long time.

"Of course she did. She feels sorry for you." Harry says, in tones of infinite wisdom. "It must be very hard for her, having a leap year boy. You do know you won't grow properly?"

"I won't?"

"Of course not. You only get older once every four years. You're only one year old now, really. That's probably why you're so small. Just imagine, Johnny - one day I'll be grown up and going to University and you'll still be stuck in baby school."

John frowns up at her. "That isn't true."

Harry shrugs, with the air of someone so convinced of their own truth that they don't care much if they aren't believed by others.

John sits down abruptly at the foot of the mulberry tree, his throat tightening. He imagines all his friends getting bigger and cleverer, leaving him behind in Mrs Miggin's baby class where you are only allowed to draw with crayons, and sing nursery rhymes and play with the lego blocks. He imagines his Mum being sad and disappointed because he won't get to be a big strong man like she always says she wants him to be. His lip starts to wobble.

"Oh, don't cry, Johnny." Harry has landed beside him now with a soft rustle of grass. "It's all right. Here." She holds out a hand and gives him a ruby dark, perfectly ripe mulberry only a little squashed in her hand.

John looks at it dubiously. He has come to suspect recently that Harry likes making him upset, mostly because she thinks it's cute to comfort him afterwards.

"I'm not crying." he says with as much dignity as he can manage. But he takes the mulberry and when, after minute Harry shifts to put an arm round him he doesn't stop her giving him a bit of a squeeze.

"I expect you will grow." Harry says. "Eventually, I mean. I wouldn't worry about it."

"I'm not worried," said John, and leans his head against her shoulder.

* * *

"It isn't your birthday." Harry says, as he opens the door to his flat.

John blinks at her. "Why are you here then?"

Harry shrugs. "I was passing by. Wanted to see my little brother was OK."

She jostles past him into the flat, eyes wide open and curious.

"God," she says. "They don't do a lot for you, do they, after all that Queen and Country stuff?"

"It's all right." John says, without any particular conviction as Harry starts poking about in the kitchen.

"Dulce et decorum est." Harry says.

"I'm not dead." John points out.

"Not exactly living either from the look of it." Harry is staring into his fridge with an expression of disgust. "Don't you keep any booze in this place?"

"No." John says shortly.

Harry looks up, eyes glittering. "My little brother," she says. "The saint. Wouldn't touch a drop of that nasty alcohol stuff. Running off and shooting people who happen to be the wrong skin colour, though, that's just wholesome family fun, isn't it?"

John stares at her. That had escalated faster than usual.

"How many people _did_ you kill, Johnny boy?" Harry says "Should I be scared?"

"You should _leave_." John says.

"Oooh." Harry hold up her hands in pretend terror.

John looks at her for a moment, and then something in him snaps. He's so tired, dear God, he is _so tired_ of everything.

"Two," he says, into a suddenly tense silence. "I shot two people. I don't know if they lived, I expect - and they weren't..."

He stops suddenly feeling as if he has run out of breath, suddenly aware of his hand shaking. He clenches his fist tight to make it stop.

Harry is looking stricken. "Oh. I didn't mean."

John looks away. "No. No, I know."

Harry moves towards him. "Are you seeing a therapist?"

"Army prescribed one." John says.

Harry wrinkles her nose. "I'm sure that's no good. Let me give you a number. Elena did _wonders_ for me after Clara."

"Yeah, I can see that." John says.

Harry clearly misses the sarcasm. "Well then, I'll..."

"No," John shakes his head. "I'm handling this on my own."

Harry looks doubtful. "You know, you can always stay at mine if you -"

"No. I'm fine, really."

Harry looks at him for another too long moment, and then abruptly starts rummaging in her bag.

"At least let me give you a proper phone. Yours is obviously no good, I've been trying forever to reach you on yours. No, I mean it, I don't want it anymore." Harry has pulled out a phone and closed John's hand forcefully around it. "Clara gave it to me – it's not like I need it staring me in the face anymore."

She smiles at him, hopefully. She hasn't changed at all, John thinks. She still thinks she can say whatever she likes and then fix it all with a second hand gift and a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

The saddest thing is that she still obviously adores him. And John isn't sure that he'll be capable of adoring anything ever again.

"Fine," he says. "I'll keep it. Thanks."

Harry's smile is wide and genuine, her shoulders relaxing.

"I knew I could cheer you up," she says. "I always could even when you were little, whenever you were sad or sulking."

"So you could," John says. "Are you taking a taxi back to yours?"

She shakes her head "Tubeing it." she says. "You don't have to worry I've caught it loads of times drunker than this."

"Glad to hear it." John says.

They are at the door now, John slowly backing his sister over the threshold.

"Well. Happy not-birthday John." Harry says. She reaches up and ruffles his hair. "Maybe this year you'll grow a little, hmm?"

John makes himself smile at her. "Bit late for that," he says.

Once he has closed the door behind his sister he looks at the phone, examining it carefully before placing it face down on the kitchen table.

"Happy not-birthday." he mutters to himself.


End file.
